


And Moss Grows Fat on a Rolling Stone

by orphan_account



Series: Arthur, Charles, Javier, and Albert [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, DON'T LET THE MULTIPLE RELATIONSHIP TAGS FOOL YOU, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Multi, Non-Graphic Smut, Polyamory Negotiations, THIS IS A POLY SHIP AND EVERYONE LOVES EACH OTHER, i love to explore these characters and their relationship, setting elements borrowed from GTA 5, the gang breaks up early and nobody dies :'), they all live in a cabin in the woods and they're happy :), they're the same universe dont @ me, top!Albert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-20 10:20:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22182346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Luck, like the wildlife he photographed, never seemed to want anything to do with Albert Mason, before he’d met Arthur. Luck seemed as elusive as smoke through his fingers, as the perfect likeness that he was always just a little too late to capture.//In which Albert Mason reflects on how goddamn lucky he is to have the life he lives. A oneshot with the OT4 where I explain how these dorks got together in the first place. Not super in-depth, not super angsty. Mostly fluff
Relationships: Albert Mason/Arthur Morgan, Albert Mason/Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption), Albert Mason/Javier Escuella, Javier Escuella/Albert Mason/Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Series: Arthur, Charles, Javier, and Albert [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1586119
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46





	And Moss Grows Fat on a Rolling Stone

Luck, like the wildlife he photographed, never seemed to want anything to do with Albert Mason, before he’d met Arthur. Luck seemed as elusive as smoke through his fingers, as the perfect likeness that he was always just a little too late to capture. 

Arthur Morgan made it seem like a little of that luck might’ve wanted to show its face when he was around. He was far from a constant in Albert’s life, especially in the beginning, but he’d saved him from certain doom more times than could ever be said of any stranger. Not so strange, then, how quickly he’d fallen for the cowboy, the  _ outlaw  _ he knew next to nothing about beyond the wanted posters and the hearsay spat unceremoniously in the street. Maybe it had just been a crush at first, a temporary lust that he’d fallen prey to many times in his life; Albert Mason truly was a romantic at heart, he wouldn't deny. 

But they kept meeting, and he kept getting lucky little glimpses into Arthur’s life, and he kept letting Arthur glimpse  _ his _ . A few chance encounters, a few hairs-breadth escapes from death, and Albert was smitten. Wanted so desperately for the man to  _ see  _ him, to read his tells, to understand what he was so fearful of speaking aloud. He wanted so desperately to know if he was reading Arthur correctly or not, if he was coming on too strong, if he was being too subtle. 

Christ, he wanted Arthur Morgan.

But another chance meeting in Saint Denis... It occurred to Albert that perhaps the way he’d been going about trying to court Arthur had been all wrong-- he’d been quoting Walt Whitman’s poetry nearly every time they’d met, absolutely sure that he’d get the message, every city man in Albert’s circle  _ knew--  _ but Arthur wasn’t a pampered college graduate like the ones Albert was used to, and he was almost positive Arthur had never set foot in an ivy league school-- so he decided to change tactics. He was desperate, almost positive that this would be their last meeting. He had to  _ know _ .

Invited him on a ride, to a campfire and a bottle of bourbon under the stars; one thing lead to another, and he had spent one of the most exhilarating nights of his life with an outlaw he still knew next to nothing about-- the man was  _ loud _ under the blankets, and bless him, he didn’t take Albert’s effeminacy as anything more than attitude. 

And Albert knew the morning after that he was in deep shit.  _ He didn’t want to leave.  _ He wanted to remain cuddled under the blanket with Arthur despite the rock digging into his side and the dewey grass soaking through the bedroll underneath them. He wanted to cling to this man for all he was worth, and... He dreaded never seeing him again. He dreaded that it might’ve been just a fling for Arthur. Just a  _ whim _ . He’d squeezed his eyes shut and clung to Arthur, desperately hoping he might’ve felt the same, for all the short time they’d known each other, and the even shorter time they’d  _ known  _ each other.

Time passed, and they met again. Kept meeting. One thing lead to another, then... Then Arthur had introduced him to Charles. Charles Smith, a man Arthur said was someone they could trust, in every sense of the word. Charles had looked him up and down, shook his hand, and knew him. 

It didn’t take long after that for the three of them to fall in with each other, while Albert was staying in a little rental cabin just south of Rhodes. One or both of them would ride in, and he’d make tea and offer cookies and lunch, dinner if they were staying the night, or if Albert was out, they’d find him too easily stumbling around in the underbrush photographing the massive boars or sneaking panthers. 

_ That  _ had been a bad idea, and was probably the closest Albert came to meeting his certain demise at the hands of nature-- or,  _ claws _ , rather.

Charles still teased him about that every now and again. 

And then weeks, months passed, in a blur of skin and sweat and exhilaration and breathless waiting,  _ wanting _ , and it began to look like maybe that sort of easy luck wanted to make itself a regular part of his life, like Arthur and Charles had. His photography was better than it had ever been with the assistance of the two outdoorsmen, it had even earned him a gallery showing in Saint Denis. 

Then one day, Arthur rode up alone while he was developing a reel. He’d come into the cabin to let Albert know that they were moving, that things weren’t looking good for the gang. He wouldn’t give many details, just that he wouldn’t be able to see Albert as often anymore, that the law was hot on their heels. 

“Isn’t there anything I can do?” Albert recalled asking, desperately, feeling in the moment like a swooning maiden from a storybook. “Anything at all?”

And Arthur had eyed him long and hard, and said simply, “Leave, if you can. Get yourself far away from danger. Just...” and he’d sighed and kissed him then, unable to think of anything else to say. Kissed him like it was the last time he’d be able to. 

"Be safe."

They parted, and Albert held himself back from crying. “Only if you promise you’ll come see me again.”

And Arthur didn’t say anything, just nodded curtly and squeezed Albert’s shoulders again, rubbed them comfortingly. 

“Just leave us an address.”

And Albert had. He packed up his belongings, left his last month’s rent in the Rhodes post office, and tacked the address of his hotel in Strawberry to the board where he used to hang his photos. 

Nearly a month went by before anyone came calling, and Albert filled his time with worry and isolation. He took meaningless photos of horses, of cats, of townspeople. 

And then, Arthur showed up in the hotel’s reception, tired and bruised, with two equally tired men in tow. 

“Arthur! Charles!” Albert said, genuine happiness coloring his tone for the first time in what felt like years. His smile faltered a little as he took in the view, his two lovers sporting injuries and a stranger who eyed him warily.

“Albert!” Arthur’s smile was tired, but he hugged him with all the strength he could muster-- not an insignificant amount, if Albert’s ribs had anything to say about it.

Charles simply smiled fondly at him, and the stranger nodded, set a little at ease by Arthur’s apparent affection for the photographer.

“And to whom do I owe the pleasure of meeting?” Albert asked.

Arthur shot a pointed look around the reception area, to the bored-looking clerk who was obviously listening to their every word.

“Err, I’ll introduce us all properly upstairs?” he said in a low voice, and Albert agreed.

He asked the clerk for their luggage to be sent to his room whenever convenient, and with that, they made their way up the stairs and entered Albert’s temporary home.

“So, I take it from the luggage that you’re..?”

Arthur sighed and sat heavily on the bed then. “We ain’t just visiting, no. We’re... It’s a long story.” He remembered himself suddenly, and introduced the stranger as Javier Escuella.

“Mister Escuella, wonderful to meet you!” Albert shook his hand enthusiastically. “You’re a friend of Arthur and Charles?”

Javier laughed a little nervously then. “Ah, well, you could say that, yes.”

Albert’s eyes widened, and he looked back and forth between the three of them. “Oh! You--?”

Arthur grimaced. “Yeah, err... Yeah. Charles said we should’a told you sooner, but... We didn’t really get the opportunity. It’s been a shitty few weeks.”

He desperately wanted to ask more about Javier, but, “How do you mean? Oh, where are my manners, sit, sit! All of you,” and he brought a pitcher of water from the desk and a plate of crackers. “It isn’t much, but you might as well get something into your stomachs before dinner.”

They thanked him in turn, and when they’d all settled, Arthur recounted the events of the last few weeks, leaving out as many sensitive details as he could.

“-And, long story short, it’s just... Dutch’s gone crazy. He’s putt’n everyone in danger, so us three... We got everyone willing to go, we got ‘em outta there. The Dutch we was followin’ all those years,  _ he  _ stopped bein’  _ him  _ a long time ago. Hosea helped us get the women and children out before Dutch tried to convince us all off a damn cliff. So... Here we are.”

Albert put a comforting hand on his knee. “Oh Arthur, I’m so sorry. He was like a father to you, wasn’t he? I can’t even imagine.”

Arthur’s face screwed up a little at that, and he nodded tersely. 

Up until that point, Charles had remained mostly silent, but he leaned forward and placed a hand on Albert’s shoulder. “You’ve been too kind to us, Albert. Can’t imagine we could ever repay you for all you’ve done but... We need your help one last time.”

“”One last time”? Charles, I’m going with you, no matter where it is you’re trying to get to. If-- that is, if you’ll have me,” he looked askance to Arthur and Javier, and back to Charles.

Charles smiled, a rare thing that sent a thrill down Albert’s spine.

“Of course.”

A long conversation ensued;  _ train tickets _ , enough for the four of them and their horses, enough to get them out of West Elizabeth and somewhere far west. It would be a long journey to get somewhere Dutch or Micah or their hired goons wouldn’t think to look, but Albert was determined. He’d find these men safe, or he’d die trying.

They stayed another five days at the hotel in Strawberry at Albert’s insistence. Time to heal up enough for the road, to get some proper food into their stomachs, and to re-acquaint themselves.

In those five days, it had been agony for Albert to keep his hands to himself. He wanted to touch his lovers, he wanted to pleasure them in all the ways he’d been dreaming of that past month, but he still wasn’t sure where he stood with Javier. The man wasn’t outwardly friendly towards him, and he just... Wasn’t sure how to broach the subject of their...  _ Dynamics  _ yet. So, Albert kept his hands to himself.

Before dawn on the sixth day, they readied their luggage and their horses and made their way up the road to Owanjila, headed west.

Albert was ordinarily a talkative man on the slowest of days, and he liked to fill the silence with anything but; however, he was a little less oblivious than most gave him credit for, and he knew that this was going to be a hard journey on his companions. They were running from the ruins their own gang, the only people they knew they could call family for god only knew how long. Albert spoke little on the road, and the sound of the horses’ hooves and the wind through the woods was their sole companion for a long while. He let their feelings digest while he rode point the first week, stopping to let the horses rest and to make camp during nightfall.

Albert didn’t mind. 

The conversation didn’t pick up properly until they’d boarded the train, tickets bought without incident under Albert’s name. He held tightly to Charles’ hand where it was hidden under his folded jacket as the train rattled on down the tracks, Arthur and Javier in the seat behind them. Charles squeezed his fingers reassuringly, and the corners of his lips pulled up in a slight smile. Albert was comfortable enough to fall asleep an hour along the ride, and only woke up when the train stopped at the station in the evening. They’d arrived somewhere northwest of New Austin, the Rocky Mountains, and would continue on to the Sierra Nevadas when the next train came. It would take a day and a night by train, but the respite from the trail would be good for them and their horses.

“Been a long time since I been out this way,” Arthur said idly as the scenery flashed by.

“You’ve been to California?”

“Mhmm. Grew up there, f’r the most part. My pa thought he’d make it big after the gold rush, dragged my me an’ my ma across the states for it. She died real soon after we got here, ‘n he just ended up robbin the folks who  _ did  _ make it big. Spent all ‘is money on whiskey, an’ got caught and hanged for it a few years later, the bastard.” Arthur’s chin was cradled in his palm as he stared blankly out the window, seeing times long gone. His voice carried little emotion, but Albert tucked that small scrap of his past close to his heart.  _ How cruel the bond of blood could be. _

A few quiet moments passed. “I’ve only ever visited Los Santos for a college trip. Awful little cattle town, but from the way those ranchers lorded over the place, you’d think they were raising cattle for the king of France,” Albert mused. “The seaside was lovely though. Like nowhere else I’ve seen.”

“Maybe we can visit sometime. I’ve never been to the sea,” Charles said. An offhand suggestion, maybe, but it made Albert smile. 

“I’d like that.”

And the minutes and the hours passed, the sun lowered and flashed brilliant orange for the briefest of minutes. The train arrived in the wee hours of morning at Paleto station without incident, and a peculiar feeling hung in the air as they gathered their luggage and awaited the stable hand with their horses.

Javier was the one who broke the silence. Surprised, Albert nearly startled-- he’d barely heard the man speak since they’d met. 

“I can’t believe we’re really gone.”

It seemed as though Javier did that a lot, in the beginning; taking Albert by surprise, voicing what he himself was always too polite or nervous to say. Charles, too; neither of them were folk to dance around the elephant in the room, so unlike Albert in their blunt honesty and guarded emotion. 

That peculiar feeling as they faced the dawn on the other side of the country settled in their ribs, strange in its lightness and familiar in its fear. 

Maybe it was freedom. Real  _ freedom _ . Beholden to not a soul, only the wind and the rain and the sun, to their horses and the earth under their feet. The California coast flew by as the months passed and they travelled north up the roads and the trails, meeting the lingering coast Miwok tribes and their families, helping where they could, sleeping under the stars, living by Arthur and Charles' bow and by blessedly light spirits. It felt like the worst of the pain was left behind with their escape.

Time went on, and one conversation lead to another, and the four of them stumbled their way through the beginnings of a relationship. There were a few fumbling nights in the dark where the four of them were still figuring each other out, awkward and unsure, and more than a few times that ended not with intimacy but with laughter and mirth. Albert wouldn’t have traded those times for anything, not in a million years.

And then one day, after Arthur’s offhand complaint of a sore back, Albert made up his mind to find them all a home. A real home with four walls and a roof and a bed that wouldn’t hurt Arthur’s back, and Albert wouldn’t have to wake up and check for bugs in his bedroll. A home where they would only have to cook over a campfire if they felt like it, where they could store away what they’d hunted or harvested. Their camp suddenly wasn’t good enough.

So Albert used some of his inherited savings from the family he had no desire to speak to, along with what Arthur’d managed to save on his wanderings, to buy the three of them a cabin in the woods. It was nestled comfortably in the mountains, a few day’s ride away from the nearest town, and a few hours’ ride from the nearest tribe. 

That strange sense of freedom, of undeniably good luck that settled itself in Albert’s heart was something he didn’t particularly feel he’d done much to deserve, but he embraced it fully all the same. That property, with its cedars and cypresses and redwoods and lodgepoles, it was a little corner of the world that he felt free to carve out just for the four of them. They raised a barn for their horses after the first month, and a proper chicken coop at the back of the house a week later using the leftover materials. Soon a pasture was cleared, and a fence put up, an herb garden planted that Arthur lovingly tended to. A vegetable garden in the back, planted a little late. They bought cows, two of them, after their first year. 

By the second, they had expanded the porch and added an adjacent lodging, if ever they had guests to entertain (the time Sadie and the Marstons visited for the new year was a cramped affair that they didn’t want to repeat-- nice, sure, but _cramped_ ).

Life was good in that cabin, far from the march of industry and tangled in each other; just Albert, Charles, Javier, and Arthur. Far from boring and not altogether without its upsets, not without the scars of the past rearing their heads long after they’d been buried, but Albert wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

How he ever got so lucky, he’d never know. 

**Author's Note:**

> welp. this is my niche now. Welcome to poly ship hell


End file.
